


the heart where I have roots

by trailsofpaper (Sanwall)



Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: Body Horror, LA Era (Crooked Media RPF), M/M, Mutual Pining, Unrequited Love, White House Era (Crooked Media RPF)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-08-22 06:00:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16592180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanwall/pseuds/trailsofpaper
Summary: Hanahaki Disease[花吐き病 (Japanese)] is a condition where the diseased suffers from unrequited love, which causes flowers to grow in their lungs. It is cured either by the feelings being returned or by surgical removal of the flower growth, but the latter will also remove the romantic feelings for the object of their love. Unless cured, the Hanahaki Disease will eventually result in death by asphyxiation.





	1. hyssop

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from a poem by Pablo Neruda named “If you forget me”. Tommy’s self-deprecation and self-sacrificial tendencies lean toward suicidal ideation in this fic, so tread carefully if that bothers you. I never thought I’d write this, but I did, so here we go. I will face god and walk backwards into hell etc etc.  
> Thanks to @semperama for proofreading and for giving me not only good advice but also invaluable support!

_The hyssop represents cleanliness and sacrifice._

* * *

* * *

Tommy’s made a lot of disastrous decisions in his life, but he’s not prone to dwelling on them. If he did that he’d go insane, so he’s gotten very good at compartmentalizing. He spent the entirety of a weeks-long tour of East Asia as official spokesperson for the National Security Agency with the President of the United States trying not to think about the night before he left, and how he’d maybe had one beer too many and how Lovett had sat down in his lap and not moved even when Tommy squirmed because he’d gotten uncomfortably hard. In fact he’d done the opposite, and ground down just enough for Tommy to know that he wasn’t going anywhere, and then, as they say, one thing had led to another, and Tommy left for the airport the following morning with the collar of his shirt just barely covering a blooming hickey.

He focuses on the job, because then he won’t have to think too much about how afterwards Lovett had kissed him, slow and sweet, and told Tommy that whenever he needed to get over a breakup he’d be up for some bi-curious rebound sex. He’d laughed as he said it, like he did at his own jokes sometimes, and Tommy had mustered up a smile even though he felt a little nauseous at having used Lovett like that. Tommy wanted to believe he hadn’t meant for it to happen like this, but Lovett had patted him on the stomach and told him to catch some sleep, before he rolled out of bed and left for his own room. Tommy was left staring up at the ceiling, bone tired but unable to fall asleep, Lovett’s absence like a bruise you couldn’t stop poking at.

Even though the job is a wonderful excuse to not think about it, Tommy can’t help but feel relieved when he gets off a plane and gets to take a cab home. He hasn’t shut his Blackberry off, but he doesn’t have the energy to even thumb the messages open on it. He lets it slip into his messenger bag as the cab rolls to a halt, and when he shuts the apartment door behind him he lets all of his bags drop, determined not to deal with them until morning but unable to do anything other than lean against the door and rub his stinging eyes with the heel of his hand.

There’s a scratch in his throat, and Tommy hates airplanes, he really does. All that dry, recycled air, all those people breathing it, you’re basically bound to catch something. He finds his way into the kitchen without putting a light on, in search of a glass of water, and in there he sees the shape of Lovett, barely illuminated by the light from the fridge.

“Oh, Tommy, what the fuck?” Lovett says sleepily and looks over at him without closing the fridge door. His hair is a mess and he’s dressed in only a t-shirt and boxers, and Tommy’s gaze catches on the pillow crease running across his cheek. He thinks, briefly, about how Lovett had pinched his skin between his teeth, how much he’d liked it. “When did you get back?”

“Just now,” Tommy says, and his voice sounds scratchy too. He gets that glass of water, even as Lovett mumbles something and closes the fridge without taking anything out. The darkness descends like a mercy and Tommy takes a gulp before he can continue, “I didn’t wake you up, did I?”

“Nah,” Lovett yawns. “I fell asleep on the couch at like 8 p.m, and I guess my body is primed to only sleep five hours at a time. I blame you, you know.”

“Yeah,“ Tommy says, breathes a laugh, and takes another sip of the water. The itch in his throat is threatening to turn into a cough, and he really doesn’t have the time to get sick. “God, I feel like I could sleep for fifteen.”

“You should,” Lovett says after a beat. “The fridge light is maybe not the most flattering, but you looked like warmed-up death.”

Tommy laughs, an open sound that feels great, even though he needs to take another gulp of water to keep from coughing. Tommy can only sense Lovett’s responding grin in the darkness, but he can see the dark outline of his arm as he brings a hand up to ruffle his own curls and say, “Go to bed Tommy, see you in the morning.”

“Yeah,” Tommy says hoarsely as he watches the shape of Lovett walk out of the kitchen. If he wasn’t worn to the bone he’d follow him, maybe see what would happen if he pressed a kiss to the nape of Lovett’s neck. But despite being so tired he can’t see straight, he _can_ see that that door is closing, if not already shut. “See you in the morning.”

He manages to keep a lid on it until he’s in his bathroom, blearily blinking into the mirror in the stark overhead light. There he has to put his forearm across his mouth, the cough ripping through him wet and tasting of iron, and something loosens from his throat. Grimacing, Tommy spits it out into the sink, expecting phlegm and seeing instead small clumps of blue.

He’s too tired to freak out, but a morbid curiosity makes him reach out and touch; the texture is odd, too dry for something that had come from his mouth. The exhaustion makes it impossible to string two thoughts together, so he washes the clumps down the drain and falls into bed and, blissfully, falls asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow.

Tommy forgets all about it, until he wakes up to his alarm and finds several small, blue flower petals stuck in the light hairs of his forearm. _Must have swallowed something outside,_ he thinks and swings his legs over the edge of his bed. He better put the coffee on, before Lovett wakes up. He’s always grumpy in the morning before he’s had his coffee. Tommy suppresses a cough and gets up.


	2. carnation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _White carnations mean “sweet and lovely" while the two-toned version means "I cannot be with you". Pink carnations mean "I will never forget you"._

It happens two more times before Tommy catches on that it’s, like, a thing. To be fair, what throws him off is that it’s not the small blue flowers again. 

Tommy is trying to tell Lovett to shut up, because Lovett is making him laugh so hard he’s bent double over his desk, probably wrinkling important papers under his body weight. Lovett grins and only commits to the skit, describing in great detail the benefits of not wearing pants at work, especially the part where Favreau goes red in the face and is unable to say anything, having to storm off in what Lovett presumes to be repressed anger.

“Please,” Tommy gasps, and he has to break off and cough, just barely managing to cover his mouth with his hand in time.

“Gross,” Lovett interjects without breaking stride. But Tommy stops listening for a moment; his lips catch on something smooth and satiny and completely foreign. He looks down in his open palm and sees a white flower petal. He closes his fingers immediately and looks back up at Lovett, who doesn’t seem to have noticed anything.

“I should get back to work,” Tommy says when Lovett pauses to draw breath. Lovett looks at him from under heavy eyelids, but then he shrugs and slides off Tommy’s desk.

“Of course,” he says. “Remember to eat lunch today. See you tonight, if you can get away in a timely manner.”

“Yeah,” says Tommy and tacks on an, “I’m sorry.”

“That’s what they always say,” Lovett quips, but he’s already out of the room, and Tommy looks away down at his closed fist. He coughs again and he can feel it climb up his throat this time, welling up from his insides until he has to spit it out.

The thing is, he recognizes this flower. It’s a white carnation, popular as a wedding decoration, and it feels like a particularly cruel reminder of all the ways he’s failed. He stares at it and wonders if he’s going insane.

* * *

That weekend, Tommy decides to go for a run to clear his head. He leaves the house just before sunup, and soon his worried thoughts are smoothed out by the repetitive movement of burning muscles, the wind in his hair.

When he gets back, he walks in on Lovett in the kitchen again, where he sits with mussed up hair and spooning some cereal into his mouth while he reads the back of the carton.

“These are supposed to be healthy,” Lovett says after swallowing, “but have you seen the amount of sugar they add? It’s like a conspiracy. Why does only unhealthy shit taste good?”

“Sugar is highly addictive,” Tommy says and then presses his lips together tight, to keep from coughing. It doesn’t work, so he walks over to the sink to get some water, cheeks burning.

“That’s what you get for trying to be healthy,” Lovett says and stabs the spoon at him. “You sound like an asthmatic. It’s like I’ve always said, running is bad for you.”

Tommy can’t say anything because he can feel the flower in his mouth. He nods and flees the kitchen, to throw up in the solitude of the bathroom. The carnation isn’t wholly white this time, but speckled with pink. Tommy knows the speckled carnations are never used for weddings, something about their meaning. He doesn’t look it up when he opens his laptop. He books a doctor’s appointment instead.

* * *

He goes in, fully expecting to be declared medically insane. Instead the doctor, a woman with strawberry blonde hair in a ponytail and wearing horned glasses, nods after he’s explained the experience and asks him if he’s traveled to East Asia recently. Baffled, Tommy confirms that he has, and she nods again.

“It’s called Hanahaki Disease,” she tells him and clasps her hands in her lap. “The bad news is, it’s a semi-psychosomatic illness that is very rare, so treatment is very rudimentary. The good news is that it usually resolves itself, one way or the other.”

“One way or the other,” Tommy repeats. “What, uh, what does semi-psychosomatic mean, exactly?”

The doctor sighs and takes off her glasses. “There has been next to no scientific research on this disease, but from what I understand, victims have all spoken about, quote unquote, _ unrequited love.” _

Tommy blinks, and she goes on, “A very strong emotion with no medium of release, in other words, takes root in the respiratory system and when the emotion goes above a certain level, it acts as a release valve.” She clears her throat and adds, “Kind of like tears, how they keep your chemical balance in check when your emotions surge.”

“So, instead of crying I grow flowers in my lungs,” Tommy says, blankly. The doctor looks uncomfortable and puts her glasses back on.

“Essentially, yes,” she says and turns to her computer. She starts clicking furiously, pausing only to type. “So, it is possible to extract the root surgically, but the procedure is risky, and patients have reported, um, lessened emotional capacity. Lasting, chronic problems.”

_ Lessened emotional capacity.  _ Tommy thinks it over. It sounds great, actually, to numb his feelings - maybe it would be better, to just feel less. But then Tommy thinks about how he sometimes does go numb, when all food tastes bland and none of his hobbies interest him anymore. It feels like a never-ending abyss, threatening to drown him, until he puts his head above water and something makes him laugh again. It’s usually Lovett, Tommy realizes, who pulls him out by being his own unmitigated disaster, and unapologetically so. He imagines never getting his head above water like that again, and it terrifies him.

As if on cue, Tommy’s lungs contract, and he coughs into his palm. The doctor turns around, eyes wide, and Tommy presents her with several speckled carnation petals.

“Any other options?” he asks, and she tears her gaze from his hand to look up.

“Yes,” she says and clears her throat again. “The instigating emotion can blow over by itself or- or it can get an actual release. Somewhere for the emotion to go, so to speak.”

“If the love is requited,” Tommy translates, and closes his hand into a fist, feels the petals against his fingers.

“Yeah,” she says. “Although the disease will progress if it’s not cured, and the buildup can be fatal. Will be fatal, in fact, although the progress is slow from what I understand. If I could have those petals for a laboratory analysis?”

* * *

_ The instigating emotion can blow over by itself,  _ Tommy repeats to himself over the next few weeks. He only needs to suppress it, and it will go over by itself. He’s a goddamn pro at that, suppressing feelings.

Spring turns to summer, and Lovett tells him that he’s going to quit and move to California.

“This was never my life’s calling,” he tells Tommy, when he must see how Tommy’s face falls. “You’re going to miss me when I’m gone, obviously, but it’s for the best. You’ll appreciate me more.”

The thing with suppressing feelings, the thing Tommy always forgets, is that they float back up when you least expect them. The carnation that falls out of his mouth on the eve of Lovett’s leaving, when Tommy’s locked himself in the bathroom to escape the going away party, is pink.


	3. sweetpea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Sweetpeas represent pleasure._

It seems like distance is what Tommy needs; he doesn’t see Lovett for long periods of time and his lungs stop itching even if they text regularly. When it’s time for Tommy to quit and move coasts, he doesn’t follow Favreau’s footsteps and go to LA - he picks San Francisco. He figures that’s a good distance away, still. He dates people, and even if it doesn’t work out he thinks the emotion has to have blown over by itself; he’s moving on with his life, in more ways than one. He hasn’t coughed up petals in close to a year.

<It sucks recording a podcast over the phone> Lovett texts him one day, and before Tommy can reply, a second message reads: <Come down here you can stay on my couch or whatever>

<Your couch? How could I resist> Tommy types back, grateful that Lovett can’t see his stupid grin.

<No need to be glib> is the lightning fast reply, followed by, <Is glib even the word? Come on Pundit misses you>

* * *

Tommy thinks he might have been in the abyss, and Lovett opening the door so Pundit can jump out at him is like the first inhalation after holding your breath for so long your lungs feel like bursting.

“You closed the gate, right?” Lovett asks and stretches to the side to see for himself. He’s barefoot and in sweats, and Tommy thinks he might have put on a few pounds and definitely gotten more tan since they last saw each other. He looks good.

“Yeah, of course,” Tommy says, hunched over and ruffling Pundit’s ears. “Hey girl, how are you? Such a good girl.”

“Typical,” Lovett says and moves back a step to allow Tommy in. “You’re just here for Pundit, aren’t you? No words of greeting left over for your old friend.”

“Obviously,” Tommy says and pushes Pundit inside and closes the door before he turns to Lovett and holds out his arms. Lovett huffs and rolls his eyes, but he also shuffles closer and returns Tommy’s hug by circling his waist with his arms, while Tommy’s arms squeeze his shoulders. It feels great, and Tommy is determined to make it a real hug, not just a perfunctory greeting. He settles into it, even though Lovett squirms a little, and Pundit gives a bark.

“What the fuck,” Lovett says into Tommy’s shoulder, his breath damp against the fabric of his t-shirt. “You’ve been working out.”

Tommy laughs and finally lets Lovett go. Lovett moves back and blinks up at him, his cheeks dimpling in an impish grin. He reaches out and presses his index finger into Tommy’s biceps, and Tommy flexes, almost on instinct.

“Ridiculous,” Lovett mutters as he turns away, and Tommy feels a pleased blush warm his cheeks. He knows it’s ridiculous, but it’s good to hear praise from Lovett, no matter how outraged it is. “You would fit right in here. Everyone’s good looking and counts their calories and it drives me insane. It’s like, we get it, you want to be an actor and you could blind someone with your teeth.”

Tommy thinks about it. What it would be like, to live in LA, to get what counts as a suntan for someone with his complexion and go for a run early in the mornings before it grows too hot. Pundit barks again for good measure as she trails after Lovett into the kitchen, and Tommy follows them both.

“You want something?” Lovett asks and opens the fridge and skilfully keeps Pundit away with one foot. “I figured we could order in tonight unless you’re dying to go somewhere, because I’m fucking beat. Beer?”

“Yes, please,” Tommy says, and Lovett pulls out two bottles and throws one at Tommy, underhanded. Tommy catches it, easily. “You know this is going to be hell to open, after throwing it around like that?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Lovett says and digs out a bottle opener from a drawer filled with debris and opens his own before he throws that at Tommy as well. Tommy fumbles catching it with one hand, but manages, and opens his bottle with a practiced move. As he’d predicted, the hops foam over immediately, and he hurries to lift the bottle, to get as much of it into his mouth as possible instead of on the floor.

“See?” Tommy says and raises his eyebrows at Lovett, after pulling the bottle away from his mouth, but Lovett only rolls his eyes. 

“Oh tragedy,” he intones. “Let’s just watch TV or something, God.”

Tommy grabs some paper towels and they settle down in Lovett’s admittedly comfortable couch, and Tommy realizes he’s forgotten how nice it is to just _ be  _ with Lovett. A lot of people have assumed he was a terrible roommate, but truth be told, even though Lovett was a bit of a mess, he was remarkably easy to live with. No arguing about the remote, content to leave you alone if you wanted it but equally ready to be your company if you needed it. With the benefit of hindsight, Tommy can admit that he needed the company a lot more than he wanted to be left alone.

Sitting on the couch like this, the space between them evaporating during the course of the evening as Tommy sprawls and Lovett kicks his feet up, first curled up and then inching out until his feet are wedged under Tommy’s thigh, is nice. Tommy stopped paying attention to the TV after the news broadcast ended and Lovett switched to reruns of Frasier; he’s more preoccupied with peeling the label off the beer bottle and feeling Lovett flex his toes.

“Hey man,” Tommy says, apropos of nothing. “Thanks for letting me stay.”

“I’m a very gracious host,” Lovett says and sets his empty bottle to the side. As he stretches, one foot slides out from under Tommy. “It would be a dick move to force you to come down and then leave you out on the street.”

Tommy laughs and manages to rip off a good size strip of label. “You didn’t force me to come down.”

“Good,” Lovett says and settles back down on the couch, sticks his foot back. Tommy shifts to accommodate him, and that’s when Lovett’s toes sort of slide up the hem of his shorts. Tommy freezes, as if locked by an electrical current, when Lovett grazes the tender skin on the underside of his thigh.

“Oh, sorry,” Lovett says and pulls his foot back. Before Tommy can think, he grabs Lovett by the ankle and presses it back against his leg. His ankle is delicate under Tommy’s hand, and for a moment Tommy is mesmerized by the almost elegant arc of his foot, before he looks up to find Lovett’s dark eyes trained on him.

Tommy swallows, his mouth suddenly dry. Lovett wiggles, experimentally, and finds that Tommy lets him move but doesn’t let go of his foot. Then he very deliberately, and without looking away from Tommy’s face, presses his foot up against Tommy’s crotch.

He’s instantly, embarrassingly, hard. Tommy feels the helpless rush of blood like a tongue of fire down his spine, and he pulls his lower lip in between his teeth so he won’t make a sound that without a doubt would be mortifyingly needy. Lovett pulls his foot back, folding his leg up against himself, and Tommy follows. He shifts on the couch so that he hovers above Lovett on all fours, and Lovett stretches out beneath him and hooks a finger in Tommy’s t-shirt collar.

“You’re not, uh,” Lovett says and licks his lips as he looks down between them, “you don’t happen to be recently heartbroken, do you?”

“No,” Tommy says and thinks he’s being truthful. “But I don’t mind.”

“Great,” Lovett says and pulls him down for a kiss.

The memories come back to Tommy in bursts - the way Lovett makes a little sound at the back of his throat when he opens his mouth, how he digs his fingers into the meat of Tommy’s shoulder demandingly but still waits for Tommy to escalate. Tommy shifts against him, presses down for a second before he takes his body weight off Lovett entirely. Lovett huffs and nips at Tommy’s lower lip in protest, and really, Tommy shouldn’t find that as hot as he does.

“Lovett,” he says into his mouth. “We’re not up-and-coming twenty-somethings anymore. Would you mind if we, uh, moved this to the bedroom?”

He lifts his head up in time to see Lovett’s plush mouth pull into a grin as he says, “How romantic. Sure thing, Valentino, just get off me and we can move this wherever you want.”

Tommy does get off him to set his feet down on the carpet, but then he fits his arms around Lovett, under his back and legs, and lifts. Lovett yelps and grabs him by the neck and Tommy’s back protests, but he settles back on his haunches to balance his -their-  weight. Tommy doesn’t quite recognize the creature of impulse he’s become.

“Holy shit, you absolute Neanderthal!” Lovett gripes, but he stays very still as Tommy starts walking toward the bedroom that is, thankfully, on the ground floor. Pundit barks at them, but Lovett gives her a firm shushing, and she settles down on her bed by the door, eyeing them mournfully. Lovett uses his foot to swing the door shut while Tommy crosses the threshold.

Tommy’s very careful about bending his knees when he sets Lovett down - he’d rather have burning thigh muscles than a twinge in his back. Lovett lands on the bed but doesn’t let go of Tommy’s neck, so Tommy tumbles awkwardly down on top of him, breathing heavily already.

“That was the dumbest,” Lovett is saying as he kisses Tommy’s mouth, his chin, his jaw. “It was so stupid but also hot. I hate that it was hot.”

The laugh that escapes Tommy makes him feel lighter. He kisses Lovett back, on the mouth, and then on the soft spot under his ear where his jaw meets his throat. Lovett gives a noisy sigh that makes Tommy want to curl his toes, and he pushes a hand up Lovett’s sweater to feel him breathe. Not in a creepy way, Tommy just really likes that Lovett is alive and is excited about touching him. That’s a normal, physical reaction, and Tommy kisses the dip of Lovett’s throat, pushing down the collar of his sweater with his chin while he rucks up the hem with his hand.

“All right, all right, all right,” Lovett says, and Tommy can tell he’s affecting annoyance when he pushes at Tommy to scoot up and pull the sweater over his head. He glares at Tommy as he bunches the sweater up in his lap, an almost defensive tilt to his shoulders. “Well? I don’t see you getting naked.”

Tommy smiles beatifically at him and sits back to pull his t-shirt off. He throws it to the side just in time to see Lovett give him an appraising once-over from head to knee, and Tommy can feel his blush travel down from his ears and cheeks to his chest.

“Stop preening,” Lovett says and pulls him back. Tommy laughs and settles back down on all fours to kiss him thoroughly, now that he has the chance. He isn’t so delusional that he thinks he can make Lovett love him by being good in bed, but then, he thinks, what’s the harm in trying?

They undress in fits and starts, with long bouts of kissing in between. The air gets heavier, the anticipation building with how they move against each other; it’s different from the first time. They’re older, for one, and there’s none of that fumbling, desperate edge Tommy remembers, where they’d torn each other’s clothes in their haste to get off. He feels a different sort of desperation though, a terrible pressure under his skin to make it good, to make it last as long as possible.

“Tommy,” Lovett says after the third time Tommy’s kissed his way down Lovett’s entire body, mapping everything he can reach with his mouth, tracing the outlines of him with his hands. “I don’t mean to be dramatic, but if you don’t get on with it and fuck me, I’m going to die.”

Tommy wants to tell him to not even joke about something like that, but that’s too serious, hits too close to home, so he looks up from where his chin is resting against Lovett’s stomach and he says, “Do you have lube?”

_ “Do I have lube,”  _ Lovett repeats, scathing, and pulls himself out from under Tommy to dig in his bedside drawer. Tommy watches him fondly, and that fondness is about to claw its way up his throat and threatening to make him say something stupid.

Instead of saying anything, Tommy sets out to make it as good for Lovett as he can. Lovett doesn’t make it easy - he keeps telling Tommy to get on with it, that he’s ready even though he by no means is, yet. He pulls a face at Tommy when Tommy pauses to rip open the condom packet, but he doesn’t protest, and he bites his lip and watches quietly when Tommy rolls the condom on.

“I can feel my hair turning gray, please hurry up,” Lovett complains and puts his foot on Tommy’s thigh.

“Are you always this easygoing?” Tommy quips, to hide how out of breath he is, how much he wants this, as he settles back on top of Lovett.

“One of us has to be,” Lovett says immediately, and the words burrow their way into Tommy gut, uncomfortably. But he can’t exactly focus on it, not with the way he’s pushing inside Lovett, God, he has to concentrate so he won’t come within the next three seconds, it feels so amazing, so suffocatingly incredible.

Tommy wants so much to just settle into it and breathe for a moment but Lovett isn’t making this easy either, he’s pushing at Tommy with his heels, gripping his back with both hands, and even more than breathing, Tommy just wants to please. So he starts moving, at first going with the rhythm Lovett sets up, but then finding his own and finding that Lovett will make a breathless noise high in his throat when he does.

Facing each other like this is surprisingly, horrendously intimate - there’s no hiding from the sounds their bodies make against each other, no hiding from Lovett looking at him from under heavy eyelashes - except Tommy does. He puts his face into the joint of Lovett’s neck and shoulder and puts his back into it, balances his body by leaning on one hand and then taking Lovett in hand with the other.

Sweat and precome makes it easy, like nothing has been up until now, and Lovett groans and tells Tommy, “Don’t stop.” So Tommy doesn’t, and when Lovett comes, his entire body convulses in a way that makes Tommy double over and press a wordless shout into Lovett’s shoulder with the force of his own release.

Feeling both sated and oversensitive, Tommy can’t imagine what Lovett is feeling. So, still breathing heavily, he does his utmost to extract himself carefully. Lovett lets him go, and Tommy thinks about making a snide comment about him being silent for once in his life, but he doesn’t quite have it in him, so he just settles down on the bed and closes his eyes for a moment.

“Hey, Tommy,” Lovett says at last, and Tommy feels him shift a little closer. “Not to toot my own horn, but that was pretty great.”

Tommy chuckles and opens his eyes to find Lovett’s trained on him, dark and pretty and creased in a smile. It would be so easy to lean in and kiss him, Tommy thinks, it would be so great to make this a- habit.

The crawling itch in his lungs is familiar at this point, but it’s never traveled up his throat this fast before. He presses his lips flat together and sits up as quickly as he can, so Lovett won’t see the terrified widening of his eyes.

“You okay?” Lovett says, when Tommy gets up to walk to the bathroom.

“Yeah,” he lies, back already turned and words a little slurred because he can feel the petals on his tongue. “Just going to clean up.”

In the bathroom he spits out bright pink blossoms and thinks about how close he’d come to kissing Lovett with flowers in his mouth. He can’t risk that happening again.


	4. lavender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Lavender is a message of devotion._

Lovett is many things, but he’s not stupid. Tommy knows Lovett’s figured out that Tommy is messed up, and that he’s trying to put a distance between them, especially now that the world has gone to hell in a handbasket and he has finally moved down to LA. Geographical distance didn’t do the trick, he figured, so might as well bite the bullet. Lovett is careful around him now in a way that’s new, glances to Tommy before he makes a joke. They barely ever touch anymore and it hurts, but Tommy knows it’s for the best.

Then, of course, they’ve founded a burgeoning media empire together, Favs and Lovett and him. Tommy winces at the use of ‘burgeoning’ but no one notices. Tommy and Lovett don’t hook up because it would literally kill him, even though sometimes Tommy thinks it would be worth it.

But now it’s no longer only his life at stake, it’s their careers. So they don’t, not even when Tommy finds his gaze drawn to Lovett, where he sits in some improbable constellation in his office chair. Not even when Tommy can feel Lovett’s gaze on him, when he stretches in his own chair so that his shirt rides up. It’s not intentional, Tommy’s pretty sure, but it’s also inescapable.

_ Don’t fuck this up for us,  _ Tommy thinks and tries to walk past Favs in a normal pace, on his way to the bathroom to throw up flowers for the third time in as many hours. He’s started to think about surgery, but he can’t risk it. Tommy doesn’t want to become unfeeling, unable to exercise empathy. There are enough assholes in the world as it is.

He’s grown to hate the smell of lavender because he can’t get it out his nose, it’s stuck there like the stinging aftertaste of bile. At least he’s learned how to be quiet about the coughing.

“You okay man?” Favs calls without looking up from his screen when Tommy comes back out.

“Yeah,” Tommy lies easily. “Too much coffee.”

He can feel Lovett track him with his eyes as he sits down, but he doesn’t return the gaze. He should have known though, that even if Lovett clips the leash on Pundit and says goodbye ten minutes after Favs has left, and Tommy waits around another ten before he himself gets up to leave, Lovett wasn’t going to let it go. When Tommy steps out into the parking lot, Lovett is there, arms crossed and leash in hand with Pundit disinterestedly sniffing the corner of the building.

“I know you have a great metabolism,” Lovett says. “But come on. What’s up?”

“It’s nothing,” Tommy says, then amends, “nothing you need to worry about. I can deal with it.” Lovett still looks suspicious, but Tommy smiles at him as convincingly as he can. “C’mon, I can drive you home if you want.”

“If I wanted a ride I’d have caught one with Jon,” Lovett says and tugs a little at Pundit’s leash. “He lives next to me, and you live ages away - the amount of gas we’d save would be negligible.”

“Suit yourself,” Tommy replies with a shrug, to tell him that he really doesn’t care one way or the other even if it isn’t true. But when he reaches his car, he hears Lovett jog up behind him and to the passenger side of the car. Tommy watches over the roof of the car, as he pulls the door open, scoops Pundit up, and returns Tommy’s gaze with a glare.

“You better pick me up tomorrow morning too,” Lovett says fiercely, eyebrows drawn. His face is so expressive, Tommy’s always thought. Lovett always hides his feelings under different feelings. “And not at some godforsaken early hour either. A normal hour, like at nine or something.”

“Eight thirty is my final offer,” Tommy says, and he bends down to cough, trusting the car door to hide the flower that falls from his mouth to the pavement. He leaves it there as he sits down in his car, smiles, tight-lipped, at Lovett who fusses with Pundit, and drives Lovett home. Lovett talks enough for both of them, Tommy only has to hum or nod at appropriate intervals, which is a relief. He’s aware that Lovett keeps shooting him looks, but Tommy’s good at betraying nothing so Lovett can look at him all he wants.

In Lovett’s yard, Lovett opens the door to let Pundit out. He doesn’t get out himself though, and Tommy looks over at him, finally. Lovett looks serious, and not in that way where he’s about to break out in an angry rant. He looks serious like he doesn’t know what to say, and Tommy feels something uncomfortable move in his gut region, which is almost a welcome relief from the terrible itch in his lungs.

“You are okay, right?” Lovett says at last, and he’s gripping his legs with both hands like he’s trying to keep them still. “I didn’t mean- I never meant to make things awkward between us.”

“Hey, no,” Tommy says, completely taken aback. “I am okay- or I will be. It’s not you.”

The unsaid  _ it’s me  _ hangs uncomfortably in the air between them, he can tell by the way Lovett grimaces, and Tommy shrugs apologetically.

“You haven’t done anything wrong,” Tommy continues, truthfully. “This is my shit to deal with, and I will.”

Lovett nods, even if he still has that look of indecision on his face. There’s nothing for him but to trust Tommy’s words though, and he gets out of the car and calls for Pundit. Lovett’s not one for sentiments, so he taps the car roof twice after closing the door, a succinct goodbye.

Tommy is proud that he makes it all the way home before he stumbles inside and pukes fragrant flowers all over the carpet. God, he hates the smell of lavender.


	5. hyacinth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Owing to the myth of Apollo and Hyacinthus, the Purple Hyacinth means "please forgive me"._

In the morning, Tommy feels like he can’t breathe. He texts Lovett <I’m sick, can’t come in today. Sorry about the ride> but doesn’t see if Lovett replies because he has to throw the phone down and retch into the sink.

He coughs and coughs and coughs, and the myriad tiny petals that come up are still purple but he doesn’t recognize them. They make Tommy think of lilacs, but it doesn’t smell like lilacs at all.

Before, the weight in his chest had always loosened a little when he coughed up the flowers, but this time the weight seems to increase, and Tommy thinks,  _ this is it. _ After a particularly harrowing bout of coughing, Tommy tastes blood and the flower emerging from his mouth is whole, entire petal clusters still attached to the green stem. Tommy spits it out, almost vindictively, and grips the edge of the sink hard enough that his knuckles blanch. Of all the damn things to die from, Tommy has to go die from this.

He doesn’t hear the front door open, but he does start when the kitchen door is thrown open and Lovett stomps in, demanding attention like no one else can.

_ “Nothing you have to worry about,  _ he says,” Lovett is saying and striding toward him. “Well, I _ am  _ worried, so you better tell me-” He breaks off mid-sentence and Tommy stares at him like a deer in the headlights, still hunched over the sink, doesn’t have the presence of mind to distract or conceal. Lovett’s gaze is drawn to the purple mess in the sink and Tommy’s heart sinks in his chest.

“What the fuck?” Lovett says, and Tommy is about to answer when his lungs contract and he hunches back over the sink and coughs up another flower bulb. Every muscle in his body is straining, like his intestines are trying to turn themselves inside out, and it _ sucks.  _ “Tommy, what the _ fuck?” _

Tommy doesn’t have the energy to spit out the flower this time, it just falls from his lips as he gasps for air, desperately. When Lovett puts his hand on Tommy’s shoulder he curls helplessly over the sink, the edge of it digging into his stomach, it hurts so much.

“I’m sorry,” Tommy manages to get out, in between short, laboured breaths. “It’s- I’m sorry.”

“Stop saying sorry,” Lovett says, and he sounds panicked. “Tommy, you’re _ puking flowers, _ what _ the fuck  _ did you do?”

“It’s not-” Tommy breaks off and coughs again, a storm that results in a snowfall of petals. He’s clinging to the sink now, his legs giving out. “It’s a disease. They grow in my lungs.”

“Dise- how do we treat it? Why haven’t you told us?” Lovett demands, maneuvering Tommy so that they’re both kneeling on the floor, his hands propping up Tommy’s shoulders. He can’t look Lovett in the eye, he just hangs his head and pants like a dog.

“There’s- there was nothing to tell,” Tommy tries to say. “It was either deal with it on my own or- don’t.”

“I don’t understand, why couldn’t you deal with it on your own? Can I help? Tell me what to do,” Lovett says and he’s rubbing his thumbs into Tommy’s shoulders, soothing. Tommy bends double and hacks up more flowers, right into Lovett’s lap, but Lovett doesn’t flinch. Tommy can’t tell him, he won’t do that to one of his best friends. He just shakes his head, which makes the room spin.

Tommy finds himself curled up on the floor, on his side, and he feels faint from what he assumes is lack of oxygen. His head is in Lovett’s flower-strewn lap, and Lovett is cradling his face. It is, all things considered, quite nice.

“That’s it, I’m calling 911,” Lovett says and lets go of Tommy’s face to dig for his phone. Tommy doesn’t know where he gets the strength, but he reaches up and grabs Lovett’s hand.

“No,” Tommy says, voice shot to all hell. “This is fine- this is good. Don’t go.”

He exhales, a rattling breath that catches in his throat. He can feel the flower grow, snaking its way up his trachea, but he can’t freak out about it anymore. His body is resigned to its fate.

“Jesus Christ Tommy, don’t do this,” Lovett says, and he doesn’t sound angry or panicked anymore. He sounds sad. He’s rubbing his thumb over Tommy’s cheek. “I haven’t- We never, fuck, I love you, you idiot, you can’t- you can’t just _ die  _ like this.”

Tommy would like to agree, but even though he knows Lovett loves him as a friend, his body doesn’t think that’s enough. His hand is still on Lovett’s, and his fingers twitch, weakly, and then he feels Lovett’s other hand cup his face.

“I love you,” Lovett says quietly and then he’s pressing a kiss to the corner of Tommy’s mouth and Tommy turns his face toward it, strains his neck, like a flower reaching for the sun. Distantly, he thinks this is not something you do to a friend, even a friend with benefits. It’s something you do to someone you love in anger and despair, like how Achilles kissed Patroclus after he died.

Something shifts inside him then, something small but significant. He opens his eyes and sees Lovett look at him, with such sadness in his eyes that Tommy’s never seen.

“Say it again,” he pleads, and from this position it’s easier to push the flower out of his mouth with his tongue to get the words out. “Say that again.”

“I love you,” Lovett says and brackets Tommy’s face with both hands. “I fucking love you, Tommy, is that what you want to hear, huh? I love you.”

“I love you too,” Tommy says and draws in a huge, gulping breath - the first, it feels, in a long time. He clutches at Lovett’s collar, desperately. “Jon, I love you.”

“That’s great,” Lovett says, sounding like he’s about to burst into tears. “That’s fucking great, we’re in love, can you stop dying now?”

“Yeah,” Tommy says and feels a smile spread on his face. He hasn’t felt this light in years. “Yeah, I think I can.”

“What the fuck,” Lovett says and shifts back, sits down somehow so that Tommy can sit up and try breathing in and breathing out without anything catching in his throat. He feels lightheaded, and it must be from the oxygen high, but Tommy just wants to laugh.

“You love me,” he says, and he’s rubbing his thumb along Lovett’s jaw. He hasn’t shaved this morning, Tommy can tell, and it’s going to look shaggy by the afternoon. He expects the thought to be followed by a stab in his lungs, but it isn’t, and he laughs.

“You’re a lunatic,” Lovett informs him, and they have their foreheads pressed together and Lovett is holding Tommy’s face with a gentleness Tommy’s not sure he would have ever attributed to him. “What the hell is this flower disease about, Tommy?”

“Oh,” Tommy says and looks down. “Oh, you’re going to kill me when I tell you. Can you kiss me first?”


End file.
